


The Road of Bones - The DVD Extras

by J_Baillier



Series: Screaming In Cathedrals [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, BAMF John, Developing Relationship, Drugged Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, John is Not Okay, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Medical, Medical Conditions, Medical Realism, Medical kink bingo, Mental breakdown Borderline platonic bedsharing, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is a surprisingly good drinking buddy, Poor Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Protective John, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Serious Illness, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock needs to be kept off Youtube, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Surgery, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4956424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before I begin posting the second and final story in this series, I wanted to give a little treat to those who enjoyed "The Road of Bones": an extra scene, some behind-the-scenes ramblings and my full writing soundtrack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Behind the scenes

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 contains some assorted 'making of' -type ramblings about the story
> 
> Part 2 is a missing/deleted scene that takes place during Chapter 2. John is trying his best to be supportive but Sherlock is having none of it.
> 
> Part 3 is a complete list of songs I used as inspiration for the story; I've added Youtube links to the three most important story-defining tracks.
> 
> Love y'all. Each and every one of you. I hope you enjoy these extra literary morsels. 
> 
> You are most welcome to visit me at http://jbaillier.tumblr.com or leave a line or two in the comments section of AO3 if you feel like it. I'd be ecstatic to hear from you.
> 
> None of this would ever have been possible if I hadn't found the greatest of betas, Chloe (mildlyamusingsoprano at tumblr). Her razor-sharp wit and outstanding command of the English language is what kept me from falling into a pit of adverb-laced despair.

**  
**=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
Behind the scenes of "The Road of Bones"  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  


I adore the H&C angst fics in this fandom. This isn't the first fandom to feature them so prominently, but the level of medical accuracy, the depth of the angst and the rawness and reality of the emotional aspects are unparalleled. Some of those stories were my gateway drug to Sherlock fic. The fact that many of them are so astonishingly accurate when it comes to the medical side, despite the fact that most of their authors are not (as far as I know) health professionals, blows my mind. It truly demonstrates how far one can get with meticulous research.

Even though I love the genre, I have never written much of it myself. Some medical stuff have crept into my stories when convenient, but usually my stories have represented general angst/drama and romance. At some point people began asking that since the medical stuff in my fics seemed very realistic, did I happen to be an actual doctor? I had never planned on revealing my profession in this context (I've always loved the anonymity of online fandoms) but at that point the ship had already sailed. It made me wonder if I should actually embrace the whole thing in my writing. That thought gave birth to "Road of Bones". 

In the course of writing "The Road of Bones" I discovered how easy it was to write about things that I know. Things I've seen. Situations I've observed. I've been incredibly lucky to never have experienced serious illness personally, but in my line of work in the OR and outside of it I regularly encounter patients who have just been dealt the blow of such devastating news and who are trying to get through everything with their dignity intact. 

On occasion I worry if it might somehow be unbecoming for a medical professional to use such issues as serious illnesses for plot devices. Luckily these sorts of worries as pertaining to The Road of Bones completely evaporated when I witnessed the online reception to the story. It seems that the things I wrote about resonated with readers and many came to the AO3 comments section to reflect on their own experiences about illness and having to go through surgery. Some even sent me PMs or emails about what the story made them feel or remember. I was incredibly honoured and touched by this and I think it's the best reward any writer - fanfic or otherwise - could ever receive. 

The author's notes of "The Road of Bones" sort of took on a life of their own. They became a behind-the-scenes discussion that was continued by readers in the comments section. I never planned to add any sort of an educative angle to my stories, but in the end I found myself doing a bit of just that, at least in the earlier chapters. I've encountered many patients whose diagnosis of a serious neurological issue has been delayed because it's understandably not always obvious for a layperson that neurological symptoms that don't include pain or make one lose consciousness might require emergency assessment. So that's a part of what gave birth to the first author's note about John's decision to act quickly. 

Why an unruptured aneurysm? Brain aneurysms are something that usually everyone has heard about and they carry an ominous reputation thanks to many fictional medical TV dramas. They are different from other brain disorders (such as tumours, stroke and traumatic injuries) in the sense that a patient with an unruptured aneurysm is likely to have little to no active symptoms, but would still have this Sword of Damocles hanging over their existence. They're functional, but terrified. Even for healthy, young patients, this is not low-risk surgery. All this makes it a very particular kind of illness, the likes of which have not been explored much in this fandom (as far as I know). 

There's this trope/fanon in Sherlock fic that he'd be a terrible, self-neglecting patient which fits my headcanon to some extent, but despite him not being very attentive to the daily needs of The Transport, I think he would take any threat to the integrity of his brain very, very seriously. And I think a threat like that would also cause him even deeper anxiety than an average person would experience. I also wanted to play with the idea of how Sherlock's history of drug use and his most likely atrocious nutritional habits might affect his health.

The BBC series itself deals surprisingly rarely with the fact that John is a doctor. He doesn't get to use his medical skills and knowledge all that much, and especially during moments when it's Sherlock who is afflicted by something terrible, John seems so shellshocked that his training doesn't fully kick in. It's completely understandable and serves to illustrate that doctors are not emotionally bulletprrof, especially when it comes to loved ones. Still, I sometimes feel that his training and experience are slightly neglected in the narrative. Some readers have told me they've had the same thoughts about the TV series and I'm happy I get to fix all that by writing fic! Doctor up, Watson!

One reader was taken aback by the dreadful bedside manner of the female anesthesiologist in the later chapters of "The Road of Bones". This was actually delighful to me, because it was my intention all along to make her a sort of an anti-MarySue. Sad but true: doctors don't always behave themselves. I think I exhausted my allowance for creating nice, smart female anesthesiologist OCs when I came up with John's med school pal Dr Clare Rosemore-Harringdon, who I introduced in "Things We Sometimes Miss" (written under my previous pen name DormantAllure), so this time I made the conscious decision to create a character who was capable of really raising Sherlock's hackles. 

The extra scene takes us back to chapter two. It takes place after Sherlock has received his diagnosis and they've left the hospital. John is trying to be more supportive than he felt he had been in Baskerville, but Sherlock clearly is not ready to face or discuss this huge new terrible thing in their lives just yet.


	2. Missing scene from Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is trying his best to be supportive but Sherlock is having none of it.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
Missing/extra scene from Chapter 2  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

At some point during the taxi ride home, Sherlock's demeanour changes from an almost confused silence to wordless agitation. It's evident in the way he runs his hand through his hair, the way in which he keeps fiddling with his phone in his pocket without actually taking it out and the way he is sitting with his back straight as a ramrod. John says nothing, sensing that any attempt at defusing the tension would probably result in being insulted.

There's little traffic and they get home in about twenty minutes. They shed their coats in the foyer and then John remains standing bleary-eyed for a moment next to the coat rack while Sherlock flits to the sitting room. 

It's close to five in the morning, and John realizes neither of them has had anything to eat for a long time. Not that Sherlock would complain of hunger at such a time. At any time. They have a doctor's appointment at the surgical outpatient unit scheduled for eleven a.m. so they'll have to have breakfast at some point before that. It's unlikely neither of them will be able to sleep, so John decides that now is as good a time as any for breakfast, and starts clanking around the kitchen cupboards.

His search results produces a couple of cans of soup. Sherlock wouldn't complain about soup for breakfast. He would complain for the plebeian requirements of his body to have such a meal in the first place, but not what it consisted of. Soup it is then.

John spots the broken pieces of a teacup on the floor. Sherlock had mentioned trying to pick one up to no avail when his fingers refused to obey his command, and this was evidently the result. John gathers the larger pieces into the sink and uses the wet corner of a flannel to make sure he gets even the tiniest sharp pieces porcelain off the floor.

John then quietly observes Sherlock while he continues heating their meagre meal.

First Sherlock stands by the window, looking out into the empty streets, hands clasped behind his back. He looks not composed but tense, like a coiled spring. He then proceeds to moving things around the various surfaces of the living room. His actions serve little actual purpose so John decides they're likely some sort of a nervous habit.

Sherlock reaches for his violin, but pauses his hand in midair, his fingers instead curling into a fist. He then sits down in John's armchair. 

He never sits there. 

John half expects him to lean back and steeple his fingers the way he always does when he's thinking, but the gesture never materializes.

As John is rummaging around the cupboard looking around for plates, Sherlock turns on the television and stares at it intently, shushing John pre-emptively in case the man might do something as criminal as talk to him.

John suddenly realizes what this is. Sherlock isn't thinking. He isn't even trying to think. He's trying _not to_.

John bites his lip as he stands in the kitchen, two plates in his hands, watching the strange scene of Sherlock trying his damnedest to focus on a rerun of the Jeremy Kyle Show on ITV.

John arranges two sets of cutlery on the relatively clean kitchen table. "Sherlock?" he inquires tentatively.

There's no answer. Sherlock is leaning on his elbows, eyes glued to the screen.

"Sherlock? Are you--"

Before John gets to finish, Sherlock leaps onto his feet and turns to face John, his eyes full of such venom that it nearly sends John stumbling backwards. 

" _If you so much as try inquire about my health I swear I'm going to fucking break something_!" Sherlock bellows and at the end of the sentence his pitch rises as though he has trouble containing whatever maelstrom of emotions has brought on this outburst.

He doesn't look as frantic as he did at the Cross Keys dining room, but back then he had been doused with a hallucinogen. Now there's no excuse like that. This is real. And that makes it worse.

At least Sherlock isn't speaking French yet.

At some poing John would really like to properly apologize for the way he had acted back in Baskerville. Sherlock had merely been his annoying self, albeit with the added spice of the drugs and clearly very, very frightened and it mortified John that he hadn't been able to see past his own bruised ego and realize the monumental impact the whole ordeal was having on his friend.

John knows that this is not the time for rambling apologies, or any kind of additional emotional upheavel. Really not.

He raises his arms in a gesture of peace. "Fine. Forget I said anything."

Sherlock coils back into the armchair like a viper, draping his arms around his knees and retreating into himself. Mind palace, probably,

In Baskerville Sherlock hadn't been able to trust his own mind. Now his transport is failing him as well.

John turns off the stove as the soup has begun to boil. "Breakfast," he says as calmly as he can muster, not expecting Sherlock to stir. It's probably fool's errand trying to get him to eat.

To John's surprise, however, Sherlock actually gets up and comes to the kitchen. He has draped an afghan around his shoulders and John realizes it's quite chilly. While standing by the stove he'd been warmer. Or maybe he has just been too preoccupied to notice things like that.

Sherlock shivers slightly as he takes a seat.

"Grab a plate, soup's in the kettle on the stove," John tells him as he carries his own portion over and sits down. A drop of it sploshes over the edge of the plate when he sets the plate down onto the table and John wipes it away with the kitchen towel someone had left hanging from the chair.

Sherlock watches him intently, frowning, and makes no attempt to head for the stove.

"This is usually the part when you start whining about not being hungry," John remarks.

"I don't mind," Sherlock says slowly, watching John intently.

Something is amiss here. John raises his brows. Sherlock shoots him a look that is half-alarmed, half exasperated.

"I'm tired," Sherlock says and alarm bells sound out in John's head. "Can't be bothered to get up. Would you mind?" Sherlock asks, cocking his head towards the stove. He then draws in a breath and is now looking at John almost pleadingly.

John blinks when realization kicks in. The broken cup. 

_I'm sorry_ , he wants to say. _I'm so, so sorry this is happening to you._

John tries to convey this with his eyes because if he said anything like that out loud he's quite certain Sherlock would lash out again but his communication attempt falls short, because Sherlock is decidedly not looking at him. Instead he's carefully inspecting his fingernails when it truth the flexing and unflexing of his fingers is likely a test of some sorts.

To see if they still work. To see if he's still complete and not falling apart.

John gets up without a word and brings Sherlock a plate half full of soup. He then returns to his seat to work on his own portion. Sherlock never touches the plate, but he had still requested some. John doesn't really know what that means, but he's certain that there's a message in there somewhere, a message to him in particular. Him and noone else.

John swallows the last of his soup. Then he clears his throat and grits his teeth in preparation. He might get yelled at. He can take it.

This is not going to be Baskerville all over again. He is never, ever going to let Sherlock down like that. 

Back then it had only been about a stupid ghost dog on the moors. This time the stakes are much higher and they can't just decide to call it quits, go home and forget about it. John almost chuckles aloud when the thought occurred that if this were a case Sherlock would probably judge it a two and dismiss it with a flick of his hand. Illness. Dull. Ordinary.

His amusement only lasts some seconds before reality sets in again. John realizes it had probably been the masked edge of hysteria trying to gain a foothold, brought on by exhaustion and the blow they'd been dealt. 

There's been fear before. Somehow it has always been lurking at the edges of their symbiotic existence, reminding John that what they do is not the everyday pastimes of normal people. Still, a reminder that Sherlock Holmes is not immortal almost takes his breath away. It shouldn't. It's just that John has imagined that if they were to go down it would be in flames in the heat of the battle. Both of them, together. Not like this. Not ever.

Noone and nothing gets to do this to Sherlock. His Sherlock, he adds in his head without stopping to think about the connotations of that choice of words. One day he will examine all of Sherlock's occupation in his head but not now. 

He looks at Sherlock, really looks at him and realizes that it is a case after all. A mission. A puzzle. But this time John has to be the clever one, the one who puts the pieces together and keeps things from falling apart. It needs to be John, because the fight is somehow gone from Sherlock's eyes and he looks like a human version of a deflated balloon. 

John's mouth tightens into a determined line.

He slowly reaches across the table and slides his palm onto Sherlock's fidgeting fingers. Sherlock's eyes dart up to meet his and John expects him to recoil from the touch but he doesn't.

"I'm not going to ask if you're alright. Saying that you're not, or dismissing my question isn't going to change the reality."

Sherlock opens his mouth but John's steely gaze shuts him up. "You just need to know that I'm here. We're both in this."

"Both in this?" Sherlock asks, looking sceptical and he gently pries his fingers from underneath John's palm. He drops his hands below the table.

John nods.

Sherlock looks at him with sudden disdain. "I wasn't aware that you had received the same diagnosis."

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He knows it's Sherlock's favourite deflective method to feign misunderstanding of what others mean when they speak figuratively, but they are both tired and upset and he's worried that if he doesn't reach Sherlock now, things will get infinitely worse.

John wants to kick himself because this is largely his own fault. After Baskerville Sherlock probably doesn't have much confidence in his support during such trying times. That has got to change if they're to survive this. If Sherlock is to survive this.

John's further attempts at conversing are hindered by Sherlock getting up, turning off the television and retreating to his room without a word.

John is left standing in the kitchen, running his fingers idly across a scrape on the table's wooden surface. He sighs and goes to put the dishes in the sink.

He tries to nap on the sofa, underneath the afghan Sherlock had discarded on the floor en route to his bedroom. John keeps listening to sounds coming from that direction, any clues as to what Sherlock is doing. All he can hear initially are occasional restless footsteps going back and forth. At one point his ears pick up a muted bang as if someone has punched a soft surface. What sounds like a book is tossed on the floor, followed by a muffled thump reminiscent of someone falling over or slumping down onto the floor. An aborted gasp, shuffling sounds, the sound of Sherlock throwing himself onto his bed, then nothing.

John desperately wants to walk down the hallway, slide a couple of nicotine patches under the door, ask the kinds of concerned questions that Sherlock hates through the closed door. As much as it pains him John knows that it's highly unlikely he would receive a verbal reply or be allowed to enter no matter what he tried. 

There is no rest for either of them.

A little after nine in the morning Sherlock emerges from the bathroom impeccably dressed. His eyes are bloodshot and his lids slightly puffy but he looks more composed.

"It'll take us about fourty minutes to get to King's College this time of the morning. Make haste. We need to get this over with," he announces as though speaking of a tooth that needs extraction. His tone is neutral, almost stern, very businesslike. He sounds like himself, but the enthusiastic spark that is always present when they go to crime scenes or head out to town to try and decipher some other type of mystery just isn't there. 

John drags himself up from the sofa - perhaps he'd dozed off for a moment after all - and decides not to bother to change out of the clothes he's already spent a day and a night in. It's not important. He grabs his coat and hurries down the steps after Sherlock. 

Sherlock holds the downstairs door open for him and they walk out onto the rainy streets of Marylebone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A complete list of songs I used as inspiration for the story; I've added Youtube links to the three most important story-defining tracks.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
Writing soundtrack for "The Road of Bones"  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

**Primary inspiration:**

[Emergency](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iryBlLyxEsk) \- Nothing But Thieves  
[Bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbr58kQ8boQ) \- Saint Saviour  
[Medicine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bNcLjmjWGY) \- Broods

**Additional songs:**

Let It Go - Saint Saviour  
Graveyard Whistling - Nothing But Thieves  
Help - Hurts  
Somebody To Die For - Hurts  
Bones - MS MR  
The Water - Hurts  
Twenty Seven - MS MR  
This Isn't Control - MS MR  
Hey Now - MS MR


End file.
